A Strange Meeting
by Windfola
Summary: Now completed first three chapters relating the arrival of Aragorn in Gondor during the stewardship of Ecthelion. Feedback warmly appreciated!
1. A strange Meeting

This is the first fiction I have written in a very long time, so it was with some trepidation that I originally posted chapter one. Due to changing my screen name I sadly lost some encouraging reviews for chapter one, so sorry to those who took the trouble to write them! I find that things are getting more complex as I write and I add new twists and turns, so this could run and run if I don't lose inspiration. I shall also have to wrestle some more with my limited Elvish! I would love your comments/ suggestions.  
  
Chapter three is now here, and I find I also need help with my Anglo-Saxon! (don't worry there's very little.)  
  
Meanwhile thank-you all for your votes of confidence. It means a lot.  
  
And the usual disclaimer follows: I am not making any money out of this. Aragorn, Denethor and Gandalf, as well as the rest of Middle Earth belong to JRRT. Alcanore and Lanyare are Maciliel's. Other minor characters are mine.  
  
  
  
A Strange Meeting  
  
Denethor sighted the brown bear out of the corner of his eye as it turned down the slope towards him. He spurred his horse and raced down the rocky path, but the going was too uneven for speed and he had to check Tolka, who fought the bridle in her terror, nostrils flaring and ears flat. Suddenly fear overcame her and she plunged through the trees to the bottom of the gully. Denethor could do nothing but hold on. There was a splash as the mare tried to clear the stream and then, legs flailing, she slipped, and Denethor felt himself falling as they crashed down together into the icy water. He rolled free just in time to glimpse the bear advancing through the trees as Tolka regained her feet and bolted. In the same instant, he heard the whine and thud of an arrow striking its mark, and then the bear was down.  
  
"It is unwise to travel alone in these woods. Bears come here often and other creatures live here, more deadly and more secretive."  
  
Denethor turned quickly in surprise at the voice. He beheld the figure of a man astride a great grey horse. As he spoke, he was replacing an unused arrow in its quiver. The body of the bear lay some ten yards away in the trees, a shapeless brown mass, pierced by an arrow at the back of its neck.  
  
"It appears that I am in your debt," replied Denethor, now soaked to the waist, regarding his rescuer cautiously as he got to his feet. He could not help feeling shaken after the encounter, but was nonetheless suspicious of the sudden appearance of this stranger in the depths of the forest, many leagues from the nearest habitation.  
  
"I have been tracking the beast since noon, and when I saw you in the distance I knew that he would follow you. You were upwind of him and that is a dangerous place to be, even on horseback". As he spoke the man swiftly dismounted and began to approach. Denethor was immediately struck by his appearance; he was tall and lean, dressed as for a long journey, his grey cloak and high boots stained with travel, but the cloak was clasped at the shoulder by a silver star of strange design. It glinted in the fading sunlight. Young he looked, and yet not so, with shaggy dark hair and a pale, stern face. Yet, it was his eyes that commanded attention. They were keen and grey, and a light was in them that seemed to pierce Denethor like a shaft of steel.  
  
"I have been in the forest on many a journey", he replied quickly, "and am well practised in the ways of bears. But my horse slipped in the stream and I was thrown. Besides I am not alone," he added, laying his hand on the hilt of his sword. He felt far from comfortable under that stern gaze. "I rode ahead of my men and they will be here before long".  
  
"You would have been dead before you had time to call out," said the stranger. "But I see that you are not hurt. However your horse has fled and I did not mark where it went. You will not get far on foot". He spoke the Westron tongue but in a manner and tone that was new to Denethor; certainly it was not of Gondor or Rohan.  
  
At that moment he heard hoofs and his men came into view and rode up the gully. When they saw the stranger they sped towards Denethor and drew their swords to defend their captain, for it seemed plain to them that he was being assailed. Swiftly they encircled the newcomer and closed in around him until their blades were a hand's span from his neck. He stood unmoved and silent, making no sign, but all the time watching the face of Denethor.  
  
"What would you have us do with him my Lord?" cried Baranor.  
  
There was a silence as the two men surveyed one other. Baranor was at once struck by the likeness between them; little different in build and in their features, strong boned and finely drawn. Brothers they might be, or cousins.  
  
Presently Denethor broke the silence. "Lower your swords. This man has saved my life and I owe him gratitude, not bloodshed. But come sir, forgive my friends. It is not permitted for foreigners to wander these borders unchallenged, even on our northern marches with our allies of Rohan. You must tell us your name and errand here".  
  
The stranger's face was softened by a disarming smile and immediately the tension lifted. "I am called Thorongil," he replied, "and I came out of the north, though I have but lately left the service of Thengel of Rohan. I am no newcomer to your land of Gondor for I have travelled to your borders many times, though without challenge 'til now. My errand is my own, but I ride to Minas Tirith."  
  
"If you have been in the service of Thengel then you have my leave to ride through Gondor," said Denethor, "but in these days no stranger may enter the city without declaring his purpose at the Great Gate, by order of the Steward."  
  
"I wish only to look upon the citadel and be content," said Thorongil, "for I have heard it is wondrous fair and never have I seen the city of the Numenoreans, that was once called Minas Anor. But since I have saved your life may I not know your name in payment for my services?"  
  
The riders stared at Thorongil in his boldness in so addressing their captain, but Denethor laughed and replied; "How can I refuse one who holds my own city in such high esteem? Very well, I am Denethor, son and heir to Ecthelion II, the Steward of Gondor. Tell me, in which company of the Rohirrim did you ride?"  
  
"I served in the king's guard," said Thorongil, "and when the King himself was not abroad, with the Marshall of Westfold."  
  
Denethor looked in wonder at the face of Thorongil, considering how one so young and an outsider could be held in such high honour, but he said, "Rumours have reported trouble on Thengel's western borders close by the stronghold of Saruman the White at Isengard. Do you know anything of truth in them? No more, perhaps, than skirmishes with the Dunlendings, though some report that Saruman has withdrawn his treaty with Rohan and is strengthening his borders on his own behalf."  
  
"No more than skirmishes and rumours, as you say", replied Thorongil, but he would not be drawn on the subject, and continued, "You should seek your horse if you do not wish to return on foot to your city."  
  
"She is away yonder in the valley lord", broke in another of Denethor's companions. "Shall I fetch her now?"  
  
"Lead her back gently if she is still afraid, Earnur", he replied, and turned back to Thorongil. "We camp here tonight. Will you ride with us tomorrow? Our road leads back to our city and I would speak with you of Rohan, for news of our allies concerns us greatly in these troubled times."  
  
Thorongil looked steadily at Denethor, considering his offer with care before he made an answer. "Thank-you", he said at last, "I will travel with you. I have ridden alone for many days and a man may weary of his own company."  
  
The riders made camp in a clearing in the valley below the stream, which passed over natural terraces in the rock as it wound its way down the hill through holm oaks and elms. They skinned the bear and made their meal from the carcass over a good fire, which kept away other beasts, and then they buried the remains to ensure the carrion did not attract wolves, which in those days were still plentiful in the foothills of the White Mountains.  
  
Thorongil spoke little as they ate round the fire. He sat apart from the company wrapped in his cloak, his face half-hidden by a hood and his long legs stretched out before him, smoking a pipe, curiously carved. Denethor and his men eyed their new companion with interest, but though courteous he skilfully evaded all but their most superficial questions about his past, and this did not go unnoticed by the son of Ecthelion.  
  
Denethor took first watch and sat by the fire, keeping it well tended for the night was cold. He found himself fascinated by the stranger. Where was he from and what was his real purpose in Gondor? As he sat on silently through the small hours, he wondered if he had been hasty in revealing himself so soon. He was disconcerted by Thorongil's cool reserve and detached manner, but despite this and his youth there was something compelling in his demeanour that made Denethor warm to him, and which commanded respect.  
  
It occurred to Denethor that he had little knowledge of the lands north of Rohan, never having travelled further that way than Edoras or Rauros Falls on the Great River. Of course, he had learned much from his father the Steward, who was reckoned one of the wisest of his line. Denethor too excelled as a scholar, and had read a great deal in the citadel library of the old northern realm of Arnor, before the line of Kings failed. But the whereabouts of Arnor could only be guessed at, for that knowledge was lost even to the wisest of his city. He had seen precious scrolls preserved with reverence by the keepers of the library, but none now could read what they might tell, for they were written in an ancient tongue with an elvish script unlike the characters used by the men of Gondor. Other tales of the lands beyond the Gap of Rohan and the Misty Mountains were dismissed as stories for children, or related the dark and dangerous deeds of mysterious folk long since gone, or so it was believed.  
  
After four hours, Earnur took over the watch and Denethor lay down wrapped in his blanket, but he slept only fitfully until the grey dawn. When he awoke he saw Thorongil standing alone on the edge of the clearing looking eastwards towards the sunrise and Denethor wondered whether he had slept at all.  
  
The company departed within the hour for they wished to reach Amon Din by that evening, and the city within two days. The encounter with the orcs so close to Rauros had disquieted Denethor as much as the rumours of trouble in Rohan. Never in his lifetime had the enemy been so active this far west and he began to feel that Gondor was becoming hemmed in, an island in a sea of storms. As they rode he confided his fears in a low voice to Baranor, but Thorongil was close behind and he felt constrained to say too much.  
  
"I have rarely seen these foul creatures by day in the open as we did at Rauros, and never in such numbers. And why were they west of Anduin where they have never dared to cross before? Eomund was right to redouble his watch on the Entwash plains. I wonder how they are faring in Ithilien if the Dark Lord has stretched his hand so far."  
  
"Mayhap he is trying Rohan's resolve by testing her when all elsewhere is so quiet", replied Baranor, his fair face drawn with concern. "I can think of no other reason for it unless there is worse to come for us all".  
  
Even as his friend spoke, Denethor was aware that Thorongil had ridden close by them, and was now at his side. He had evidently heard all that had been said.  
  
"It is not the first time that these great orcs have been seen in Rohan", said Thorongil, "if as you say they were abroad in daylight. They are not like the goblins from the East or even those from under the Misty Mountains. They are bigger, with long hair and thick hides and they wield great scimitars as well as bows. I have followed them at times and know something of their ways. They do not fear the sun and can move at great speed if they must."  
  
Denethor turned towards Thorongil and looked at him thoughtfully; "It was a foolhardy thing to follow the Enemy except at great need. It is said that Orcs are quicker than sight when roused and can smell a man a mile away. What do you know of these creatures? Are they not from Mordor like the rest?"  
  
"I do not know. They are unlike any of the creatures of the Enemy that I have seen before. And why they concentrate on Rohan I cannot tell. You say that you met with Eomund. Was that in the Eastemnet?"  
  
"He was patrolling the areas round the Entwash with twenty of his household when we met him," replied Denethor, amazed at his own candour. "He had seen a host of these great orcs on the Emyn Muil, but was outnumbered and dared not engage them with so few. We pursued them together but they crossed the River at night and we lost their trail on the hard ground. Is Eomund known to you then?"  
  
"I have met him at Edoras. He is a very valiant man, one of Thengel's best, though he is but twenty years old. He will be Marshal before many years are out, if fortune permits."  
  
They rode on out of the Firienwood and, skirting the foothills of the mountains, they passed Min Rimmon, Erelas and Nardol and entered the Druadan Forest. It was a cheerless day; the late autumn sunshine had gone by noon and a mist was settling on the moorland of Anorien. They stopped only briefly on the way, and Denethor continued in silence for the most part. He had surprised himself at his openness in the presence of the stranger, whom he found he trusted against his better judgement. "Why, if I had found any other man in the wild", he thought, "though he had rescued me from a pit of snakes, I should have done my duty and taken him prisoner, to be brought for judgement before the Steward. Yet here I am confiding in this stranger tidings that should go first to my father." His behaviour startled him exceedingly and he began to debate what he would do when they reached Minas Tirith.  
  
The company used Eilanach Beacon as their guide through the thick woodland and reached Amon Din without mishap. The mound rose up out of the mist and the sun was once more visible as it began its setting in the west. No creature larger than a deer had they seen all day, but as they made camp at the foot of Amon Din, Earnur glanced up and exclaimed:  
  
"What is that great bird away over the beacon? It is wheeling in circles as though it was awaiting our approach."  
  
Denethor looked up and saw high above them a dark shape with huge wings spread wide.  
  
"It is an eagle", said Thorongil. "One of the Great Eagles of the Misty Mountains. I have never seen one so far south before. I wonder what has brought it down from its stronghold?"  
  
"You have sharp eyes, Stranger", said Denethor, and laughed. "That befits your name I think*. No doubt the bird followed you to see what one of his own kind was doing so far from home!"  
  
Thorongil smiled, but his face was troubled as he watched the eagle. Presently it left the beacon and disappeared from sight towards Mount Mindolluin, whose snow capped peak loomed before them in the south.  
  
The next morning the mist had returned so that the top of the beacon was scarcely visible from the camp. The company quickly made ready to ride, for the pine forests of the Druadan had an unwholesome feel in the poor light, even on the great West Road, which they joined as soon as they could now that Denethor judged it safe to do so. No orcs had ever been reported in Anorien, but the forest hid secrets older even than Gondor, and few left the road unless they had to, or ventured into the trees beyond Amon Din.  
  
The road soon took them due south so that they were looking straight at Mindolluin ahead of them, making good speed for the going was flatter and the mist had gone. Four hours after noon they reached the Rammas Echor, the great out-wall that had protected the Pelennor and the city since the fall of Osgiliath. The guards at the gate waved the company through, bowing their heads before the son of the Steward.  
  
Now they rode over the plain that lay at the foot of Mindolluin, and ever closer the mountain rose before them, the highest, most easterly peak of the Ered Nimrais. Its slate grey faces and snowy heights beckoned them on, for at its knee on a great dark spur stood the City of the Tower of Guard. In a sudden shaft of sunlight it gleamed bright as the snowfields above. Ancient as the mountain it seemed, with its seven encircling walls of stone, and surmounting all, the Tower of Ecthelion.  
  
Not for nought did Thorongil wish to look upon that tower, thought Denethor, as he rode swiftly at the head of the company. His heart was high as he made for home, and he experienced the familiar rush of love for his city. He turned and there was Thorongil at his side, and his eyes were shining as he beheld Minas Tirith, and Denethor felt a well of pride to see him so moved.  
  
As they crossed the Pelennor the riders passed field after field of rich soil, dug now for winter and a new sowing in the spring. Here and there vineyards could be seen, and mellow farmhouses of stone and timber, golden in the afternoon light. Eastwards the road bore round the high city wall, which reared up above them, black and impenetrable. Then it swept up to the Great Gates, which solemnly overlooked the river far below.  
  
There it was, Anduin, flowing in a wide arc south and west up to the Harlond, majestic, slower now as it spread lazily over the plain, washing the fertile fields with autumn rainfall gathered above Rauros from the Misty Mountains. "Anduin", thought Denethor, "What tales you could tell me from the north if I could but hear your voice." He felt a sudden desire to follow the river upstream and see what lay beyond Rauros, beyond Rohan, and to seek the truth in the stories he had learned, to know the land this grey stranger called home. But it was not the fate of the stewards or their kin to travel far from Gondor in those days, for too pressing was the need at home.  
  
The company reached the Gates and they stood open, for it was not then the custom to close them before dusk. The guards saluted their lord and then beheld Thorongil and stood amazed. For though they knew him not, the man they saw seemed to them like one of the lords of Gondor, noble and fair of face, yet stern of glance, dark-haired with eyes of grey that proudly held their gaze. But there was something loftier, more remote in him that made them stare, and they gave way before him, and permitted him to pass.  
  
Through the gates they rode, and climbed the steeply twisting way that passed to this side and that as it threaded through the seven circles of the city. At each level it passed a great arch under the Keel, the great spur of natural rock like the hull of a vast ship, that thrust through the circles and overlooked the Gates. At length they reached the sixth level, where stood the stables of the guard, and here men took their horses and tended to them. Denethor bade Thorongil wait with Baranor at the gatehouse by the stables, for he would not permit him to enter the citadel without the Steward's leave, and he alone strode up to the seventh level.  
  
The Steward had finished his meal and was alone in his private chambers, save for one servant in waiting by the door. His son found him pondering a letter, which he concealed when Denethor approached. Ecthelion turned to his son and they embraced.  
  
"I thought to see you six days ago," he began. "Is it as I feared, that all is not well with our allies?"  
  
"I have much to tell you my lord. But I must eat and rest a little, and then the tidings will be better told." Denethor thought his father looked strained and ill. His face betrayed a weariness that comes of many sleepless nights and of pain that will not pass. The Steward rose with an effort and leaned on his staff.  
  
"Bring food and wine for my son," he commanded, and the servant went to do his bidding.  
  
"Father, there is one matter more pressing." Denethor hesitated for a moment. "A stranger waits at the stables. He met with us on the border. I would not have him left at the door like a beggar."  
  
Ecthelion frowned. "What do you mean by "stranger"? You do not say "friend", and I take it he is not your prisoner. So what is he? An emissary of Saruman?"  
  
"I must speak truthfully father - I do not know. He has served under Thengel, or says that he did. I think he is a nobleman, but he is not of the Rohirrim, and he has not, I think, been frank with me. But he saved my life in the Firienwood."  
  
"Saved your life?" The frown turned to surprise. "Then bid him enter. I will not have such an act rewarded with discourtesy in my own house. Show him into the antechamber and have rooms prepared for him."  
  
"Is that wise my lord?" replied Denethor. "We know nothing of this man but what he tells us. He may speak the truth, but he has answered few of my questions and there is something about him. I cannot describe it." He tailed off, unable to put his uncertainty into words.  
  
"Nevertheless I will meet this stranger and make my own judgement, since you are not yourself it seems." The Steward felt suddenly irritated. His son's uncharacteristic indecision was disconcerting and he was more than usually troubled by the pain of his old wound.  
  
Denethor knew from his father's tone that it was pointless to argue. He returned to the gatehouse and found Baranor and Thorongil where he had left them.  
  
"You may enter the citadel, Thorongil, for the Steward wishes to speak with you. Come, I will take you to him."  
  
They passed through the tunnel under the Keel and came to the Great Arch that led on to the court of the Fountain before the Tower itself. As they left the arch Denethor heard a sharp intake of breath as his companion beheld the Tower of Anor, which just then was bathed in a golden light, as the last rays of the setting sun glanced across the battlements before she disappeared behind the mountain. Thorongil paused and looked on the fountain beneath the high tower, and then he gazed long at the dead tree in the centre of the greensward. Gently he took in his hand one of the thin, lifeless stems that hung down low, and murmured something in a strange tongue. Then he took a deep breath and followed Denethor into the hall of the Kings.  
  
In the antechamber the steward was seated on a small dais, awaiting their arrival. Thorongil approached and then knelt before him, his eyes cast down. Ecthelion studied the face of the stranger long before he spoke.  
  
"It seems I must thank you for the life of my son and heir. I have not yet learned the manner of this deed. Will you tell me what happened?"  
  
"It was a chance meeting with a bear in the Firienwood, my lord", he replied, without looking up. "Lord Denethor's horse fell and unseated him just as the creature came upon him. I was close by and shot the bear. No more than that."  
  
"And where was your escort while this animal was attacking?" Ecthelion turned to his son.  
  
" I was riding some way ahead of them, lord. They did not see it happen."  
  
"Even knowing as you do that your life is too valuable to risk without need, you did this thing?"  
  
"There was no cause to think there might be any danger, sir"  
  
Ecthelion sighed and was silent for a while, and then he addressed Thorongil again. "Tell me your name and business in our land."  
  
The stranger stood up tall and looked the Steward straight in the eye. "I am called Thorongil and I came out of the north. But I have spent these past thirteen years in the service of Thengel of Rohan. I led the King's guard. But he has released me from his service for I wished to journey south. With his full accord I have come to offer my sword to you my lord Steward, and to Gondor." Thorongil drew from a sheath that had hung concealed at his side a long sword of strange design and, bowing low, laid it at the feet of Ecthelion.  
  
The old man stiffened, and then his eyes softened and he said: "I see truth in your face, Thorongil, though your story is strange and I would hear more of it before I accept your service. Take back your sword. A chance meeting you say with my son, but it was timely and you have my gratitude. You will be my guest tonight, not my servant, and tomorrow we will talk again."  
  
Ecthelion rose and slowly left the chamber, leaving Denethor and Thorongil alone. They looked at one another for a moment, and then Denethor spoke.  
  
"My father is a cautious man and not easily deceived, but he reads truth in what you say, that is plain."  
  
"I see that you on the other hand have not yet made up your mind about me," replied Thorongil. "It is your duty to be wary of strange wanderers, whoever they say they are, especially in your own house. I would do the same in your place."  
  
A shadow of suspicion passed over Denethor's face. He thought for a moment how he might test Thorongil's story, and then began: "Your speech is courteous and you have pleased my father's honour with your offer. But I would have more surety before I let you sleep in this house. Did Thengel send no token of his trust for you to give to the Steward? The Rohirrim write no letters it is true, but something from his house he might have sent with you."  
  
Thorongil's eyes glinted and he looked sternly at Denethor. "I prefer to earn trust on my own behalf and not bandy tokens or recommendations. But as you know well, your own tongue is spoken daily at Meduseld. King Thengel lived for twenty-nine years in this very city and is as skilled in the writing of your speech as you are. He took Morwen of Lossarnach to wife, who is seventeen years younger, and they have a son, Theoden, who is twenty- two years old. Their youngest daughter is called Theodwyn and she is but seven years old. She is dark-haired and takes after her mother. Do I pass your test?"  
  
Denethor was not daunted and things might have gone ill, but suddenly he smiled broadly and exclaimed: "Forgive me my doubt, friend. You have answered well on all counts. A cloud has been over my sight, so disturbing has been the news of late. I wished to trust you from the first, but you are a strange fellow in your garb and your speech and your manner. Like a creature out of a tale you seem to me. Will you not now be more open with your story?"  
  
At that moment servants brought food and wine enough for both men and they set it on low tables and drew up couches. The two men sat down and began to eat. Denethor dismissed the servants and when they were once more alone Thorongil said: "It is nineteen years since I left my home and I wandered far in the wild and saw many strange places, ere ever I came to Edoras. My old life seems now like a dream and I will not speak of it. It will be long before I return north, if I ever do. It is not my fate to serve in the land of my birth, so I seek to offer my sword for the use of others who would defend themselves against the evil in the East."  
  
"Will you ever speak in riddles be there a sword at your throat or a cup of wine in your hand?" Denethor gave a wry laugh. "I submit. I will ask no more tonight for I am very weary. Tomorrow there is much to discuss and you may find my father less easy to deter."  
  
"We shall see. But tell me of Gondor while we eat so that I may begin to know it better."  
  
"You appear to have heard a good deal already. What would you know?"  
  
"Tell me of the Stewards. Why is there no king in Gondor?"  
  
And so Denethor began to tell Thorongil of the last king, Earnur, son of Earnil, who died without an heir in torment in Minas Morgul, that had been Minas Ithil, and then of his Steward, Mardil, who ruled in his stead, there being no heir apparent who could rightfully claim the throne. He briefly related the history of the twenty-five Stewards of the House of Hurin, who each vowed to rule in the name of the king, until he should return, and never once sat upon the throne or wore the crown of Elendil. From the Watchful Peace, when Sauron submitted to the White Council, Denethor told of the ruin of Osgiliath, and the alliance with Rohan, of the surrendering of Orthanc to Saruman and the terror of the Corsairs of Umbar. Last he told of his grandfather, Turgon, in whose time Sauron re-emerged and entered again the tower of Barad-dur.  
  
Thorongil listened intently and when he had finished asked: "Do you think a king will ever come again to Minas Tirith?"  
  
"After twenty-five generations? You may as well ask if the moon will change places with the sun. We carry on the traditions of our house and our people keep up the old sayings." The face of Denethor hardened. "No Steward would dare unfurl the royal standard on his own behalf. But how, if one came, would he prove his claim except to children and dullards?"  
  
"How indeed?" agreed Thorongil, and fell silent. His host began to turn over in his mind the report he must make the next day, and as he did so he studied Thorongil, who sat on, eyes unfocused as though he walked in a waking dream.  
  
In the morning Ecthelion called Denethor to his chambers even as he breakfasted.  
  
"Now you are fed and rested tell me your news from the north. How goes it with the Riddermark?"  
  
"We patrolled the border with Eastfold for six days, my lord. For five days we saw no one but as we returned east along the Entwash floodplain we found everywhere the tracks of many companies of orcs, some fresh, some several days old. The land was rent like an open wound where they had passed. Then we came upon Eomund of Eastfold with twenty of his eored. They were following the most recent trail as it led east towards the River. They had sighted a company of at least one hundred orc but were too few to risk riding close. We joined them and caught a look at the enemy before we lost them in the Emyn Muil. They were the biggest orc I have ever seen, father. Swart of face and black of garb for the most part, tall and thick set. They had long hair and wielded scimitars like the Haradrim, and by their marks they were shod with iron. And they ran by day and night so that were we not mounted we feared we would have lost them sooner. I have never known their like before."  
  
As Ecthelion listened to his son and captain his face became grave and he closed his eyes as if to shield them from some memory that had scarred his mind. When Denethor finished the Steward moved to the window that looked to the East, beyond the Tower and over the Keel, across the valley towards the broken teeth that topped the Ephel Duath, some fifty miles away. In between lay Ithilien, the once fair land that had soaked up the blood of a thousand valiant warriors. At once he was there again, ordering the retreat that had ended in that last desperate stand-off, and then yet again he felt the rush of pain as the curving steel bore down on him and he longed to make an end. Fifteen years a virtual cripple, imprisoned in his own citadel, had so sharpened the memory that he doubted he would ever be rid of it.  
  
Denethor watched his father's private torment and wished for the hundredth time that he had the words to release his pain. Instead he felt the familiar void that daily came between them in all but matters of state.  
  
Presently Ecthelion turned and spoke with an effort in a harsh whisper. "What you saw my son were Uruks of Mordor. In his hatred and his malice Sauron has crossed orcs with men from Rhun and Harad and produced this perverted race to serve his evil purpose. They were very few at first, but he must have perfected them so now he has enough to use in force. They fear nothing save their master, and they thrive on hate, embracing cruelty and feasting on death."  
  
"You speak as one who knows these creatures!" Denethor was incredulous.  
  
"It is not the first time they have been abroad, though it is many years since they last came west of Minas Morgul, and never in the numbers you speak of." Ecthelion sighed. "But we can only watch and wait."  
  
"Until Sauron has us trapped like rabbits down a hole for his dogs to flush out, I suppose."  
  
"Will you never learn patience Denethor?" The Steward's voice rose in frustration. "We may not test our foe until we know his strength, lest he take Gondor by the scruff and shake the life out of her. Would you see him on the King's Seat supping on our grief and pain before the year is out? For that will surely be our lot if we call his hand too soon."  
  
"Then why does he toy with these sorties in Rohan if he is as strong as you fear?" Denethor fought against his father's stinging riposte, the crushing rejection he had known from childhood.  
  
"No doubt because he hopes his enemies think as you do." Ecthelion broke off. He knew that he was being unfair, but sometimes his son seemed to him to lack his father's resolve, the strength to do nothing until the time was ripe. Or was the Steward deceiving himself? Could it be his own fear that stayed his hand?  
  
"And what of Westfold?" he continued. "Are the rumours true regarding the Dunlendings?"  
  
"Eomund had no news to add to what we already know, my lord. The Dunlendings have been making forays into the Mark and some farmsteads have been sacked. Maybe Thorongil could tell you more. And orcs have been reported in the north by the forests of Fangorn. Thengel sent word to Saruman to ask his advice but no answer has yet been brought."  
  
"The wizard becomes more reclusive as the years go on. Like me he feels his age perhaps." The flicker of a smile played on the Steward's lips and he went on, "Forgive my temper Denethor. I have nothing to reproach you for, except your youth and vigour, of which we will all, I think, be glad before long. But tell me what do you think of this stranger from the north?"  
  
"I have never met his like before, sir", replied Denethor. "Like a silent shadow he seemed in the woods where we met, as if he were one with the trees. He says little and listens much, but I have heard him speak a tongue that had a music in it like rippling water. I don't know, my lord, but I think I heard Elvish words in the court by the fountain."  
  
"Elvish! No one in Gondor has used that tongue in my time or my father's."  
  
"I cannot be certain but it was not Rohirric. The words sounded familiar to my ears. But he is close and will say little of his past."  
  
"We shall question him further in time," said the Steward. "So, he wishes to serve Gondor. A man who speaks Elvish is hardly likely to be a servant of the Enemy. Do you believe his story?"  
  
"Yes Lord, I think I do."  
  
"Then he shall have his chance. Have him brought to me at noon. But before you go there is another matter."  
  
Ecthelion drew the letter from the chest where he had placed it the night before and showed it to Denethor. "Adrahil has sent ahead to tell me that he rides to the city within the month. He wishes to consult with me regarding our southern defences. And he writes that he will be bringing his daughter with him."  
  
"Surely she is still but a child, father. Is it safe for her to make such a journey?"  
  
"Finduilas is fully twenty years old and by all accounts is grown early to womanhood. In any case, is it not customary for Dol Amroth to send its children here to finish their studies? And she begs her father to let her look upon Minas Tirith while we still enjoy what peace remains in Gondor." Ecthelion watched his son's expression with curiosity as he digested the news. "I had thought you might wish to see her yourself."  
  
"Meaning that she's the only suitable match this side of the White Mountains I suppose." Denethor humoured his father but his smile was not heartfelt. "She is but half my age and the last time we met she was on her mother's knee."  
  
"Then rest assured she will have changed since then," said Ecthelion. But if you will not have her or she you, then what hope have I of knowing your heir while I still breathe?"  
  
"Let us wait until we meet and I will answer you then, father."  
  
Denethor left the chamber with the air of a promising, but idle student, reproached by a disappointed tutor. He put the matter from his mind and went outside to the Keel to look across the vale, a ritual he had performed daily since childhood. Standing on the battlements, he leaned over the wall and surveyed the Pelennor, but it was blanketed in autumn mists and not even the river was to be seen. Beyond lay the Ephel Duath in the distance, seeming to beckon him closer towards its jagged peaks, as daylight advanced slowly behind.  
  
Just then an almost imperceptible footfall made him stir and he found Thorongil beside him. He too was looking out over the wall and he smiled at Denethor.  
  
"My lord."  
  
Denethor nodded abruptly. He hated to be disturbed on the Keel, which he had come to regard as a place of private contemplation. Thorongil seemed immediately to understand for he said no more, but stood silently, deep in his own thoughts.  
  
~~~  
  
Aragorn had breakfasted alone and walked in the court of the fountain, but he knew that the watchful eyes of the door wardens were following him. He had slept little that night as he turned over the events of the last few days. His plan, as far as he had made one, had been to spend time alone in Anorien, perhaps several weeks, reacquainting himself with the land, before approaching the city. He had enjoyed the sense of freedom that had come over him after he left Edoras for the last time, for he never felt more at ease than when he was alone in the wild, self reliant, practising the skills that he had learned of necessity, but which for years had felt as natural to him as breathing. Moreover, he had to own a feeling of tension that was close to dread at the thought of finally entering the city of his people, a moment for which he had for so long prepared.  
  
At the same time, it had pained him deeply to leave Thengel, whom he had long counted as friend no less than liege-lord. The news from Westfold had reached Meduseld even as Aragorn had been saying farewell. Thengel had insisted that if he chose not to leave then, a right moment might never come, and only this had enabled him to go through with it. Their parting words made Aragorn wonder even now if Thengel had suspected more than he had ever let on in their thirteen-year friendship. Had Rohan's king the foresight of the Dunedain?  
  
Then to meet, of all people, the son of Ecthelion, and in what circumstance! Events had moved on apace and the Ranger had had little time to consider his course. Denethor was the last person to risk offending if Aragorn was to come himself to the citadel, which he knew he must before long. Now here, before the White Tower at last, he was confronted by an inner turmoil that he had not felt for nearly twenty years. Not even Gandalf's gentle warning at their last meeting had prepared him for this moment. His glance strayed again to the tree of Nimloth, standing naked by the fountain, and its withered boughs seemed to whisper the futility of long years of hope. Caught out by his emotion the day before, his thoughts had found a voice unbidden, in the tongue that came most easily to him, from the time when he had known no other. That Denethor had heard his words he was certain from the other's face as they had crossed the court. What he had made of them Aragorn could not imagine.  
  
Just then Denethor had come into view, striding along the battlements that topped the Keel. Following at a discrete distance, Aragorn had silently made his way along the wall until he too overlooked the valley. For some time the Steward's son had not noticed his arrival, but was wholly absorbed in his own thoughts, until he had turned suddenly and their eyes met.  
  
I presume on his privacy, the Ranger realised at once as he greeted him. This man would be my friend, but does not suffer easy intimacy. Nor should he! I forget to whom I speak. How different had been his first days with the Rohirrim, amongst whom even his looks should have isolated him; and yet he had felt at home with the easy, straightforward charm of the riders of the Mark. Now here in the citadel of the Dunedain he was ill at ease, and it came to him that he had never felt more alone. The very air of the city seemed heavy with years of attrition, so that Aragorn felt almost choked by it, even there on the battlements, seven hundred feet above the plain. His thoughts turned unbidden to Imladris, and he had swiftly to wrest his mind back to the present lest he be overwhelmed by the memory.  
  
~~~  
  
"So, Thorongil, now that you have seen my city does it meet your expectations?"  
  
Denethor's question brought him to himself and he instantly recovered his composure. "It surpasses every image in my mind," he replied. "I never thought to see such beauty carved in stone, or on such a scale. But its splendour veils a sadness that seems to shroud the very walls in weariness and regret. Has it always been so?"  
  
"You feel the presence of the shadow over yonder," said Denethor. "It has been many lives of men since a time when our people could look towards the east and not be touched by it. And through all the years our children grow fewer, and many families forsake the city to seek peace in the vales and the woodlands of Lossarnach or Lebennin. But who knows how long we may keep them safe from the great Eye?"  
  
"The Riddermark is full of tales of Gondor's strength of arms. Is it not then so?"  
  
"Our forces are many times the strength of Rohan, certainly. But our allies number Rohan alone, and who knows if that is strength enough to trouble Sauron, who calls on all the lands east and south of Anduin? But come, my father wishes to see you in the Tower at noon and there is much to be done."  
  
As they left the battlements the eagle was again just visible as it soared high above the tower, before it wheeled away to the north and was lost to sight. Before they reached the fountain a young man clad in the uniform of the king's guard came across the court to meet them. It was Baranor.  
  
"My lord Denethor, I have word that Thorongil is to be brought before the Steward to swear his allegiance and to be assigned a post. He must be prepared if he is to be presented in the Tower, and time is short."  
  
"Then you had best make ready, Baranor. Take him to the guardroom and see that he is properly equipped."  
  
Baranor led Thorongil away to be clad in the battledress of Gondor, the tradition when a new soldier was to be sworn in. He put on the habergeon over his tunic, and Baranor handed him the black surcoat of the Guards of the citadel. But when he beheld the emblems emblazoned on the front, the white tree surmounted by the silver crown and seven stars, Thorongil handed the surcoat back to Baranor asking: "Who has bidden you to give me this livery? Is it not reserved for the citadel guard?"  
  
Baranor turned away in confusion and bowed his head. "Why yes, lord, but I assumed that you were to join the guard. You were King Thengel's champion, were you not? Am I mistaken sir?" He raised his eyes to meet Thorongil's gaze but could not hold it long.  
  
Thorongil smiled down at the young man and said gently, "I know not how the Steward intends me to serve him. But I will make no presumption of my rank. A plain soldier of Gondor I will be, until I may earn a reward for my own merit, if that is my fortune."  
  
At length they came before the White Tower that rose high above the citadel and could be seen from the furthest fields of the Pelennor. Smooth and sheer, its pale stones were set with such skill that none might climb the outer wall. In the north face a single large doorway gave access to the Great Hall. The doorwardens silently escorted Thorongil into the Tower and through a wide, paved walkway as far as the entrance to the ancient vaulted chamber of the Kings. On the black stone chair of the Stewards, was seated Ecthelion in formal attire. Behind him on a dais of many steps a high throne stood empty beneath its marble canopy.  
  
Slowly Thorongil approached the dais and knelt before Ecthelion, who observed him coolly with hooded eyes for several minutes before he spoke.  
  
"You came last night to offer your sword to the service of Gondor. Such an offer should not be lightly made, or put aside. Do you still stand by your words?"  
  
"I do my lord."  
  
"And was that your purpose in leaving Thengel of Rohan?"  
  
"It was."  
  
"A grievous blow to the King to lose his champion so, but a generous gift on his part, wouldn't you say?" The Steward raised a questioning eyebrow. "We shall see. Tell me how you came to earn such an office. How long did you lead the guard?"  
  
Thorongil stood up and said; "Seven years, my Lord. Before that I rode with the Mark in Westemnet. I proved my worth against the Dunlendings, for they have long troubled the borders around the Gap of Rohan."  
  
"Ah, Dunland, the gadfly at Rohan's flank! And what of Saruman, for he too shares that burden? How does he counsel Thengel in the defence of the Riddermark?"  
  
Thorongil looked at the Steward thoughtfully. "Saruman has long kept his own counsel and comes not to Edoras as he used. It is five years since he sat at Thengel's table, and two since any message came. The king sent word to him that orcs have once more been harrying Eastfold, but the doorwardens of Orthanc dismissed the embassy, saying their master was abroad. The riders waited above one week outside the gates like so many stray dogs, but he came not, and so they left."  
  
"And whose counsel will Thengel take now I wonder?" murmured Ecthelion, as though to himself. Then he continued, his dark eyes probing the other's features. "Thorongil, Star Eagle; a strange name for a strange fellow. The Rohirrim do not use such names for their folk. But I am forgetting, you were not born in the Mark. Still, you must have come there very young, I think. And you are from the north, you say. Is that where you learned the Elvish tongue?"  
  
Thorongil smiled briefly in admission. "Yes, my lord."  
  
"And was that in the Golden Wood, or somewhere else?"  
  
"I have been in Lothlorien, and, yes, I learned much there, Lord."  
  
"Did you indeed?" He paused again and then looked sternly at Thorongil and said; "Now tell me why I should take you into my service, and not send you back to the Mark, or, perhaps, to the Lady of the Wood."  
  
"Very well, my lord. I can shoot and ride as well as any man in Rohan, and better than most. I can wield a sword, which I learned long ere I came there. I have some skill in hunting man and orc, and can live a year in the wild using no more than what I can carry. Is that enough? I seek no high office, for merely to serve will be my reward."  
  
"You seek no high office? Few men of Gondor earn that honour, and many fail in the attempt. And why would it please you to serve Gondor?"  
  
"No man who has seen your city would not be moved by its splendour. Gondor has the greatest strength of any land east of the Sea, and above all she is the enemy of Mordor, and men should flock to her banner for that reason alone."  
  
Ecthelion suppressed a look of amused irony. "You have high hopes for Gondor's strength against the Shadow in the East. Few would now claim that for her, strong as she is. But we can only resist as we may. I will accept your sword, stranger from the north. You will be assigned a post when your skills have been established. Now hand me your sword."  
  
And so Thorongil swore fealty to Gondor, and to the Steward, and Ecthelion accepted his service and bad him remain in the citadel as his guest until his duties were assigned.  
  
* "Thorongil" means "Eagle of the Star" in Sindarin 


	2. Minas Tirith

This follows on from "a strange Meeting", which should be read first. It recounts Aragorn's first days in Minas Tirith…..

Surpassing fair indeed was the great city of Gondor, that was once named Minas Anor, the Tower of the Setting Sun, in the days when men believed that the shadow in the east was vanquished, and none was left to trouble her strong walls and high citadel. And yet she was but an outpost of the glory that had been Osgiliath, before the ruin of the Citadel of Stars and the Tower of the Moon.

For years without count she had stood invulnerable at Mindolluin's knee, since Anarion, son of Elendil the Tall, first raised her seven circles, built so strong that none could tear them asunder. Lofty halls of white stone embraced the sheer walls, and their high windows overlooked courtyards that danced to the music of shimmering fountains. There, in the upper levels, dwelt the noblest families of Gondor, and their proud doorways opened on to the broad, paved way as it swept majestically up to the White Tower. 

Truly Minas Tirith recalled the splendour of Westernesse before the fall, and yet there was a sadness about her that all could feel even as they beheld her beauty. For empty, now, were many of her dwellings, and few children could be heard in her courts and gardens. By small degrees the marks of decay could be descried about her features, of little moment maybe in the strength of her substance, but telling of the dearth of hands to tend her daily needs. And for long now she had been the Tower of Guard, standing vigil as the shadow slowly spread, while every passing year brought it creeping nearer to her gates. 

The folk who yet dwelt in the upper levels were for the most part still from native houses of long descent and Númenórean blood, though it was less pure now than in former years. But even as they mingled with those of lesser lineage, they became more generous in thought and deed, less self regarding and less proud. City folk they might be, but their thoughts never strayed far from the further reaches of Gondor's realm, Lossarnach and Lamedon in the mountains, fair Lebennin on the River, and Belfalas by the sea. And ever they looked across the vale towards Ithilien, the Garden of Gondor, and recalled with sadness the lost glades and falls, for few now dared to venture east beyond Anduin's shores.

~~~

Aragorn was granted seven days leave before he was to join the company of Captain Turin, which was soon to go to Ithilien to relieve the men under Lord Bergil's command. The intervening time was his own, and he used it to his profit in exploring the city. He laid aside the cloak of grey and the star of the northern Rangers, and went forth into the streets, clad in simple green and brown, and none marked him save to note that he appeared as one of the countrymen from the mountains or from the Pelennor. For those who saw him took him for a farmer or herdsman, unless they chanced to catch his gaze. 

As he walked through the city he marvelled at the great houses and the workmanship of their carved faces. He stopped often to observe folk about their daily business, or the lords of the city conversing in the public spaces, and he found himself thinking that he was indeed an untutored countryman beside them in their fine clothes, while the golden halls of Meduseld were as thatched barns compared to the palaces of Minas Tirith. 

Slowly he made his way down from the citadel, pausing to look around him or at the valley and the river below, until he reached the lower levels. In the first circle of the city were the markets where all manner of things could be bought. Here there was produce the like of which had never been seen in the north, fruit and sweetmeats and wines and exotic goods from the Vale of Anduin, far to the south. Aragorn spent the greater part of the afternoon exploring the stalls and back streets, and delighted in the variety and the life that he found there. 

In the fast deepening gloom of dusk he was starting to make his way slowly back up the hill when he came upon an inn in the second circle that was busy with folk tired from the day's toil and ready to take refreshment with friends. A tall venerable house it was, one of the oldest in the city, and a splendid board in blue and gold, now somewhat faded with age, proclaimed it's title proudly to the world, The Eagle and Sceptre. Entering through a wide oak doorway, Aragorn found himself in a crowded room, lit only by a blazing fire and one or two lanterns, but comfortable and welcoming. 

The innkeeper was a sourfaced man in his middle years and appeared not to see the newcomer, but had his hands full with regular custom. A crowd of a dozen or more traders, or their like, was waiting for service, talking noisily, while a young girl, looking flustered, was carrying platters to and from the tables. Aragorn hesitated, and then chose an empty table in the far corner of the room. One or two customers glanced at him with curiosity as he made his way past. Presently the landlord's wife noticed him and came over. She was handsome in her way, regarding herself as a woman of fashion, after the manner of the tradesfolk of the lower levels, and she surveyed Aragorn with interest, eyeing his worn clothing with casual disdain. 

"Well now, and what can I do for you this evening?" she asked, not unpleasantly.

"A draught of your best ale, madam, and something to eat in due course," he replied with caution. 

"There's hot beef stew and as much bread as you want. Pardon me for asking, but have you the means to pay, young man? This is the city, and you're not from these parts unless I'm mistaken!" she added with amusement.

"I have," nodded Aragorn impassively. 

A few minutes later she returned with a brimming tankard and set it on the table. As Aragorn stretched out his hand to take it, the ring on his forefinger glinted in the light of the fire. Ancient it looked, and very bright, and the lady stared at it with interest.

"Now where would a fellow like you be coming by that ring? Find it in a field did you?" She laughed and took his hand, turning it over the better to see the fine detail chased on the polished silver. "It's a pretty thing and no mistake. How much would you be wanting for a trinket like that then?"

Aragorn was taken aback and glanced sharply at the woman, but answered quietly: "It is merely a small heirloom of my house, madam, but it never leaves my hand." 

"An heirloom is it?" she echoed and looked closely at his face as if for the first time. The disdain left her gaze and she smiled. "Well I never did. Hey, Ioreth," she called to the serving girl. "See this young man? Bring him our best fare and no skimping, mind." Then she pulled up a chair and sat down. "I do beg your pardon, sir, but I mistook you for a farm hand or some such. I see my mistake now, but it was your gear that put me off." 

Aragorn smiled. "Should not then a farmer carry such a trinket?" He drew a sip from his tankard and, stretching out his long legs, settled back comfortably in his chair. It was the landlady's turn to feel disquieted.

"Well, now I come to think of it, why not? But I should have guessed when I saw your hands that you don't work on the land."

Just then the girl brought a wooden platter bearing a great bowl of stew and set it down on the table. She gazed at the stranger shyly but said nothing. Aragorn thanked her and began to eat, and it soon became apparent that he had no intention of satisfying the landlady's curiosity. After a few minutes she rose and followed Ioreth into the kitchens, just behind his table. From inside the open door he could hear their voices clearly above the general talk;

"That's a strange fellow, Ioreth, and no mistake, but very soft spoken, very polite. But if he's a farmer then I'm the king's daughter!"

"He didn't say so, did he?"

"No, but that's my meaning. Coming in here dressed like that, I nearly sent him on his way. But when he spoke and I saw that ring, I thought to myself this man's not what he seems."

Ioreth lowered her voice. "I'll tell you what I thought ma'am, he has an Elvish look to me," she remarked conspiratorially. 

"What are you talking about girl? How would you know an Elf if you saw one?"

"My aunt told me about them. She saw some once! Very fair she said they are, and sort of other worldly. He has that look about him, I'd swear to it. Well that's what I think anyway," she ended stubbornly.

"What ridiculous nonsense you Lossarnach girls speak! Elves indeed. You'll be saying he's a lord or a prince next. What you saw was the pretty face of a courteous young man, and there are few enough of those to be had these days, I'll grant you. I'll wager he'd scrub up a real treat, with a decent coat on his back. Now hurry up and see to those dishes, before I send you back to your mother to knock some sense back into you."

__

I must look to my clothes!, thought Aragorn and suppressed a laugh, but he averted his eyes when the landlady came out of the kitchen again, for he had no desire to draw further attention to himself that evening. However the women continued to attend to him with extravagant care until he could bear it no longer and escaped into the evening rain. 

Now it was the practise in the city from long years of informal custom for a single horn to be blown from the Keel every morning at sunrise, and for the citadel guards to face towards the East as the long note rang out across the city walls, to greet the sun, and in gesture of defiance at the watchful Eye of Mordor. Thus daily did the guards flaunt the livery of Elendil in the face of the Dark Lord, should he chance to cast his gaze across the vale.

The horn roused Aragorn and he went early to the citadel stables to visit Windfola. His old friend, a gift from Thengel some years before, was being well tended, but disliked being indoors for the horses of the Mark were unaccustomed to stables. He was restive and thrust his fine head under Aragorn's arm, nearly pushing him off his feet. His master murmured to him in the language of the Mark, and gently caressed his ears.

"We will ride out today my friend, for I too feel the need for open space. This city is too much all at once for us rustic folk! But soon we shall have work to do, and more maybe than you would wish."

As he was harnessing the beast, Eärnur walked by and stopped to talk to him. 

"Good morning, Thorongil. That is a fine horse. Is he of Rohan stock?" 

"One of their best," replied Aragorn. "I am fortunate to have him, for he was picked for the king's son, but he took a liking to me and will suffer no other to ride him."

"He chose a good horseman!" Eärnur had noticed that the bridle bore no metalwork, after the fashion of the riders of the Mark.

Aragorn laughed, saying: "Théoden rides as well as I, but is it not said that the _Mearas_ choose their own masters and will not be ruled by boot or steel?"

"He is one of the _Mearas_?" The young man's eyes widened. "I have heard that they can be headstrong indeed. What said Théoden to his choice?" 

"He kept his own counsel, but he knows the king's horses better than to gainsay it. And he has his own mount now, the brother of Windfola, who is called Snowmane. They are as twins." 

"May I ride with you today? I am not needed until Turin goes to Ithilien."

"I am to join his company also. Are you then to ride with Turin, and not lord Denethor?"

"Denethor is my cousin and I rode with him for sport not toil. He is the Warden of the White Tower and is needed in the city. But I have only just come of age and this is my first posting." 

"You may ride with me if you will. But how fast is your horse? This fellow is chafing for a run and I need to feel the wind on my face."

"Slower than Windfola, I don't doubt. But I can show you the best paths to ride, and more besides."

"Then we shall go together," said Aragorn, warming to the other's enthusiasm. 

They rode down from the citadel and an odd pair they looked; Eärnur, not much more than a boy, but dressed according to his station as one of the lords of the city, and his companion a little older, clad still in rusty green and brown, but astride the finest horse that had been seen in Minas Tirith for many years, while Aragorn's face spoke of wisdom and cares seemingly beyond his years. 

At the city gates they paused and Eärnur said; "Northwards you have seen, and soon we ride east. Today let us go south and I will show you the river at Harlond, for it is only a few miles."

They left the paved road below the gates and, guided by Eärnur, took to the rutted byways of the Pelennor, passing through rolling farmlands, dotted with fine old farms of honey coloured stone, the summer homes of the landed folk of Gondor, where were grown the greater part of the commons that fed the city. Late autumn sunshine tinted the red brown tilth a soft, golden hue, while long rows of tall, slender poplar softly whispered in the breeze, their bronzed leaves lingering still in the mild November air.

In time the farmhouses and the trees grew fewer, and the fields began to widen, giving way to open pastures where sheep were grazing. Gently the land sloped down, and suddenly the River appeared below them, a rippling swathe of gleaming silver nearly half a mile across, rolling slowly south and west. 

"Here we may give the horses their heads," cried Eärnur, "for there is no wall or dyke for half a league, until we reach the Harlond and the River. See, the harbour lies away yonder to our right." He pointed down the slope towards a cluster of low buildings that filled a wide gap in the great wall of the southern Rammas Echor. 

"Then I will await you there!" answered Aragorn, but Windfola needed no word. He lifted his head and sprang away, his rider bending low along his neck, and in a moment he was a grey speck on the great sea of green ahead. Eärnur followed but, swiftly as he rode, he soon trailed far behind the steed of Rohan.

As he approached the Harlond, Aragorn saw the high wall skirting the steep river banks ahead and concealing the waters behind it. Windfola wheeled round to the right to follow its course up to the landings by the vast river basin, where the tall ships of Gondor lay at anchor, when they were not bearing folk or goods downstream to the Ethir, or onwards to Dol Amroth up the coast. In winter it was quiet for the most part, for the waters of Anduin were treacherous at times of storm, and fierce tidal currents could sweep unwary sailors aground or out to sea. The ancient landings were built for bigger vessels than were now employed, when the Sea-Kings' rule stretched far south and north, from Umbar to beyond the Grey Havens; and the massive harbour walls of hewn stone matched those of the city in their strength and workmanship. Four ships lay at anchor in the deep waters of the basin, while a fifth was laid up in dry dock for repairs, but no shipwrights or sailors were in view, and all was quiet as Aragorn slowed to a walk and surveyed the scene before him. The ships were strange, for vessels such as these he had never seen before, large enough to bear many men, with wide, white sails and long banks of oars. From each rose a graceful prow curving high above the deck, and bearing the outspread wings of Gondor, silver on black. Like great grey swans they basked in the harbour, and very fair he thought them.

Presently Eärnur caught up, and they halted on the harbour's edge, gazing downstream. The river continued west, skirting the foothills of Mindolluin like a broad, silver road, and then rolled away to the south across the great plain of Lebennin, and on for fifty leagues, towards Pelargir and the sea.

"Often I stand here and think of Númenor, the ancient home of my people," said Eärnur quietly and sighed. "At times I can almost see it in my mind, so that I could step ashore from one of those ships and reach out to it. Would that it had not been lost!" He was silent for a moment, and then asked; "Have you seen the Sea, Thorongil?"

"Once, long ago, far to the north," he replied. "I would give much to see it again, and one day, perhaps, I shall."

They stood in silence, for to each it seemed that the river was murmuring his own hopes and desires, and they listened long to its rippling song before they turned and slowly rode back up to the Pelennor, beside the straight road that linked the Harlond to the city.

"Tell me of your time with Thengel. He left Gondor before my birth," said Eärnur, eager to hear about life in the Mark. "What sort of man is he?"

"He is a good king and the best of men," replied Aragorn. "All who know him come to love him in time, though he is proud and sudden to anger, as many will tell you. But I count him my friend and he is true, like all his people."

"And Théoden, his son?"

"Théoden I do not know well, but he seems likely to take after his father. Perhaps less proud, and more subtle like his mother, Morwen, but not less stern when need drives him." 

"And what of Orthanc at Isengard? They say it is a mighty fortress." 

"I wonder that you need to ask, since it was built by your own people," answered Aragorn. "It was made in the manner of your city, though its purpose was function, not ornament, and more so now than ever, I deem. The Ring of Isengard is very strong and needs no work by men or wizards to keep it so, for it was riven from the mountains in the shaping of the world. But Saruman has strengthened the gates to keep out his foes and none may enter without his leave. I have never done so, though I have seen the high tower from the gates. It is like a vast bolt of iron driven into the ground, and is very tall and sheer, but it is not a thing of beauty to my mind, or has not been so for many years."

As they rode back towards the city, Eärnur wanted to ask Thorongil about his home, and why he had travelled so far south, but he was deep in thought, and the young man perceived that the stranger did not wish to be questioned, for in his face was the look of one whose mind walks in a far country beyond the sight of other men.

In an upper chamber of the White Tower, the Steward and his son took counsel regarding the messages and news from Rohan, and from east of the river. Ecthelion was studying a report brought in that day by messenger, his face grey with concern. 

"Lord Bergil reports three more farms raided west of Henneth Annûn and their families taken or destroyed. He hopes against hope to bring more within the Walls, but he is hard pressed, and some refused to leave their homes at the last attempt. He fears to lose his men in a hopeless cause, but he would not see more families lost."

"My lord, I would not abandon the folk of Ithilien to torture and death, but how many men must we lose for the few who are reckless of the evil they face and will not come willingly within the Rammas? The enemy grows ever more active at the Black Gates and nowhere east of Anduin is a haven now. These folk are foolish to remain, when we offer them safe passage."

"Would we not do likewise were the city so beleaguered, Denethor?" The face of Ecthelion hardened. "Do not be swift to chastise another's loyalty to his home, until you have faced the same evil." 

Denethor's fists tightened, but he replied; "Turin shall help Lord Bergil to bring those he can to the city. But, my lord, should we not consider withdrawing the horses from northern Ithilien? They cannot be brought within the safety of Henneth Annûn and any that glimpse them will find the entrance sooner or later, for they are as beacons in the dark to the enemy."

Ecthelion thought for a moment. "We cannot yet afford to give up speed for secrecy," he answered slowly. "I deem they should remain until we have no other choice. Now Turin may be able to persuade the Ithilien folk to return, since his people are well known in that land. But he has not Bergil's years and does not himself know Ithilien well."

"Mablung will make up any lack there, Lord. He is an old campaigner and knows the land around the refuge as well as any in Gondor. But Turin has the sharper mind and will not suffer his heart to rule his thought. That I saw at the Ethir. He can be shrewd and determined when the need calls."

"I have heard it called ruthlessness. But he'll likely need to be both, for Ithilien slips further from our grasp as we speak, my son. Heavily do I rue it! But if I press the Dark Lord there, he will merely strike harder in the South and before long take Pelargir behind our backs. We must not be cut off from the Ethir. Bitter are all our choices in these times!" Ecthelion sighed and then went on, "You have given him Eärnur, I hear. My heart is against his going, but his time is ripe and no paths are safe now. And the stranger too? His service to Gondor may be shorter than he would wish! Well, we shall soon find out from what mould he is cast and whether he has the craft he claims. I doubt he has been so tested under Thengel. Will Turin take to him I wonder?"

"I have instructed Turin, my lord, and he is content."

"Very well. In five days they shall go." Ecthelion paused and then smiled, as though to himself. "Denethor, have Turin invited to my table for tomorrow's eve, and Thorongil too. He intrigues me. You will be there also?" The remark was spoken as a question, but Denethor knew better than to refuse. "And see that he is given something more fitting to wear than the gear he arrived in."

At the smithies on the sixth level the company of Turin was gathered the next day to prepare for the journey to come. Eärnur joined them, and with him was the newcomer. The company regarded Thorongil curiously as he moved among them, exploring the weaponry and armour, casting skilled hands over mail and blade, but saying little as he chose a light shirt of the fine linked mail of the soldiers of Gondor, and taking nothing else except a short knife. Presently a tall, grizzled man entered the room and came over. A long curving scar crossed his cheek and parted his greying beard. He looked Aragorn up and down with a quizzical eye. 

"I am Mablung. Are you Thorongil?" Without waiting for a reply he went on in a surly tone; "You have been in Rohan I hear. May I assume that you can at least ride a horse?"

Aragorn nodded, silently surveying Mablung through narrowed eyes. Eärnur smiled.

"The children of Eorl amuse themselves with bow and spear," he went on, laughing sardonically, "but such toys are little use where we are bound, for the trees of Ithilien grow thick. Have you ever used a sword?"

"I have a little skill at need." Aragorn smiled as his hand strayed to his side, but the grey eyes hardened. There was a silence and then he asked quietly; "Have you ever been among the Rohirrim, sir?" 

Mablung looked surprised. "I have not," he conceded. 

"Then do not presume their worth, or enter the Mark without their leave lest you be felled from your horse ere you can draw your sword. They are the best bowmen west of Mirkwood, and you may live to be glad of their toys!" 

Mablung hesitated, and then replied stiffly. "That is as maybe, Stranger, but if the Shadow drives us west to Edoras, the Rohirrim shall know what it means to have foes baying at their doors like crazed dogs."

"They know already what it means, sir." Something in the gravity of the newcomer's tone and his steady gaze caught Mablung off guard and he realised that this was not the barrack room bragging that he had invited. He paused, while Aragorn discerned a softening of his features, and quite suddenly the two men relaxed as they understood one another. 

"Come," said Mablung. "Show me your sword." Aragorn presented his long blade, still sheathed, and Mablung drew it gently forth. It was beautifully balanced as he held it aloft, and unadorned except for a single rayed star of silver on the dark polished hilt, smoothed and glistening through years of use. Mablung ran a callused finger along the razor edge and smiled broadly.

"That is a fine blade, Thorongil. Its maker must have put years of skill into its design. How did it come to you?"

"It was my father's, and his father's before him."

"Then there is hope that you will measure up if your weapon is any guide." replied Mablung and went amongst his men to oversee the weapon-take. 

"Take no heed of Mablung," laughed Eärnur as they left the smithies and crossed the court back to the citadel. He speaks ever as though he is chewing a lemon, even when he is off duty! When I was a child he would come to my father's house and I used to hide from him. But he likes you, I think."

Aragorn grimaced. "I pity his enemies. Where did he come by that scar?"

"I heard it was when he was taken by a Southron raiding party, years ago as a young man. He was riding alone by the river Poros in the south and only barely escaped with his life. Tis said that the Southrons burn their captives alive, but Mablung broke free. He lost his horse and had to walk fifty miles across the plain to Pelargir, without water or food. They say he was nearly dead when he got there."

"Then he has my respect," replied Aragorn. 

That night Aragorn lay on his back in the guest chamber at the house of the Stewards, and stared up at the fine carved work on the ceiling, framed by long hangings of delicate woven stuff. The room, simply but elegantly furnished, was more like to his old home than any he had seen since he went abroad into the world, and keenly again he felt his solitude, as though it pierced his heart anew. His thought strayed back to the last days at Imladris, long before, and his old life, suddenly upturned, first by Elrond and then _…_ _Arwen, anvanima, tye méla!_ Her face shone in his mind's eye, clear as at their last parting, as though even now she was leaning over him, and he had only to reach out his hand to give her substance. But Elrond's words came to him then, laden with the sadness Aragorn had seen in his eyes as he spoke; _There will be no choice before Arwen, unless you come between us, and bring one of us, you or me, to a bitter parting beyond the end of the world. _Barahir's ring felt heavy on his finger, and his thought turned to Luthien, and to Beren Erchamion, and he wondered how he would ever find the path that he must take. _Truly, my father, I would not see you parted. But if my own Tinuviel cleaves not to me, what hope have I on this endless road? It is a heavy burden, and I cannot see the way. _

You will find the road Estel, for I shall help you! Aragorn started, for the voice was not a memory but came to him like a clear shaft of moonlight in a darkling sky. He shivered. It was a voice he knew, not of the north, but nearer, and stronger than any he had yet heard, rich and melodious. He caught his own voice then, distant and faint; "I would speak with you, my Lady, of the pain in my heart and hear your counsel!_" _

Then come when you may. My land will be as a haven from your labour in times to come.

Would that I might come now! But gladly do I hear your words.

He closed his eyes, and for the first night in many, he slept long and deep, until the grey November dawn crept late over the vale.


	3. The hall of the Stewards

For this chapter I want to thank Maciliel for her generosity in lending me two of her own characters, Alcanore and Lanyare, when I was feeling strapped for inspiration, and for her general words of encouragement. Feedback warmly welcomed.  
  
  
  
the Hall of the Stewards  
  
  
  
The lower floors of the White Tower housed the rooms of state, the counsel chambers and archives of the Stewards. A broad stair of oak swept up to their doors, from the entrance to the hall of the throne. The upper rooms could be reached only by a winding spiral of steep steps that led from behind the great hall and hugged the outer walls as they climbed, passing deep embrasures that afforded just enough light to see the stone-carved treads. However, the rooms above the third storey were seldom seen and were closed to all except the Stewards and their closest counsellors. When the first Ecthelion rebuilt the high tower, he had used it for his dwelling place; he, and many generations of his line that followed. But in latter days, as the shadow slowly grew, the lords of the line of Húrin raised their own house overlooking the court, for the Tower faced East, and it was rumoured that from the highest window the Barad-dûr could at times be discerned by those with keen sight.  
  
Many forgotten artefacts and books of lore lay still in those dusty chambers, but for years the present Steward had been too infirm to mount the narrow steps, and he had long kept hidden the key that opened the door to the highest chamber. At times though, Denethor would climb the winding stair, for he had ever been drawn to the musty rooms of the upper floors and their mouldering treasures, as priceless to the Steward's son as all the heirlooms in the citadel. He had spent many hours in his youth poring over faded volumes and papers that told the histories of Númenor, and of Gondor and the Kings, and the annals of the line of Húrin, his forefathers. And other parchments there were, more arcane, in flowing scripts and tongues that often Denethor could not read, skilled even as he was in the speech of the peoples of the West.  
  
In such pursuits lay the Warden's chief pleasure, for it seemed to him then that he was far away from the sorrows of his own time, in the days when the Shadow slept and his fair land flowered with the beauty of its cities and the wisdom of the kings. As the years went on, and he took up his father's sword, untimely, for the defence of Gondor's borders, he visited the Tower whenever fortune brought him home. Often he would sit at one of the high windows and gaze out upon the vale of Anduin towards the distant ruins of Osgiliath, and the image of her past glory would come unbidden into his mind. He saw clearly the old capital as she must once have looked, remote, but fair and unblemished, her high citadel glittering on its island amid the waves, while, about the great stone bridges, the wide waters of the river shone silver like starlight. But on that day as Denethor sat, pondering the messages from Ithilien, the ruins stared starkly back at him, and where once the sun had glinted on tall and shapely windows, there gaped empty, grinning mouths in the blackened and blasted walls.  
  
He sighed and made his way back to the stairway, passing the locked door that led to the high chamber, and then with a heavy heart he left the Tower and crossed the court of the fountain. As he reached the house of the Stewards, a man came to meet him, a little younger than himself, raven haired, but slighter in stature than some and darker of face than most. He bowed low before the Warden, greeting him formally.  
  
"Hail, my lord Denethor."  
  
"Hail, Turin, Captain of Ithilien", replied the other, a wide smile breaking the strain on his face.  
  
Turin laughed. "Captain I may be, but I have yet to earn my rank and it sits ill with me 'til then."  
  
"You earned it at the Ethir, my friend," replied Denethor, "and none could have done more to prove his worth. Now come, let us go inside for there is much to discuss before you ride east."  
  
They walked into the house and entered a small room, comfortably furnished, with a fire already burning on the hearth. A table stood in the centre of the chamber, and Denethor unrolled a sheaf of papers that he had brought from the Tower; figured maps depicting Ithilien and the surrounding lands from Pelargir to Rauros Falls.  
  
"Henneth Annûn you already know," he said, casting his hand over the largest chart. "Here is the old road that runs from Minas Morgul north to the Morannon. A few folk live there still, between the refuge and the Nindalf, though why they linger is beyond my understanding."  
  
Turin replied; "My mother speaks of fair lands north east of Cair Andros, between the woods and the moorland, and they say that some of the best fishing to be had in the Anduin is upstream of the island, by the field of Cormallen." He looked gravely at the Warden. "Had my father lived I doubt not that they too would be there still."  
  
"Lord Bergil is gathering to him any who are willing to leave," answered Denethor, "but there are reports that orcs are moving between the Black Gates and the marshes, and soon nowhere will be safe in the north. We cannot risk men indefinitely for folk who refuse the safety of the Rammas. A time may come soon when none can be spared to protect Ithilien, for the River must be kept open to the south. So do all you can to bring them back, but not at the expense of your company, do you understand?"  
  
Turin nodded, and Denethor went on, "Mablung knows the best paths north from the Refuge, even as far as the marshes. He will not fail you. And most of the company are Ithilien born, even those brought up in the city like yourself. But you should be cautious of riding too close to the Morannon, for it is not yet known what the enemy may be doing and there is little cover between the Nindalf and the mountains. Do not go that way unless you must, or at least send two or three swift riders ahead."  
  
"And the stranger, this Thorongil," said Turin. "What do we know of him? You seem certain that he can be trusted, but with what surety?"  
  
"I know only what I have already told you," said the Warden. "He says little, but what he has revealed rings true, if I am any judge. As to his skills, Eärnur rode out with him yesterday, and has learned that his mount is one of the Mearas, so we may be sure that he is a good horseman. I can vouch for his bowmanship, but we can only wait and see how he fares with a sword. You will meet him soon for he eats at my father's table tonight."  
  
"An unknown soldier without rank or office?" Turin's eyes widened. "The Steward does him high honour. How close were you to death when he killed that bear?"  
  
"Close enough," said Denethor and shuddered at the memory. "But he is a strange fellow, as you will see. He silenced Mablung at the weapon-take, I hear."  
  
"That must have been a sight to behold!" Turin laughed. Mablung's tongue was legendary amongst his men. "Well, if you trust him, then so must I." He hesitated for a moment before asking, "Denethor, are you to dine with the Steward also?"  
  
Denethor nodded grimly and, glancing at Turin's face, saw that his friend understood, though he had needed no word.  
  
"But for myself I am glad that you will be there," Turin went on. "The thought of eating with your father and this silent wayfarer chills my heart more than a score of well armed orc!"  
  
"That is as maybe, but we shall not be alone, for tonight my father bids farewell to Eärnur, and many are invited. We shall feast in the Long Hall. I am thankful, for that at least may turn his thought from Adrahil's coming."  
  
"What of it?"  
  
"He brings his daughter, Finduilas, to Minas Tirith, and now my father seeks to detain me in the citadel, when I would sooner ride to Ithilien against the host of Mordor, than sit and barter pleasantries with the Prince of Dol Amroth and his whelp." The laughter in the Warden's voice had an edge to it now, like cold rain on glass.  
  
Turin looked long at Denethor, searching his dark eyes, and then said, smiling, "Be wary, my lord! She may even match your desire. What would you do then?"  
  
"Why, marry her, of course!" It was Denethor's turn to smile, and then he added gently; "What else would you have me do, old friend?"  
  
Turin caught his eye, but glanced quickly away, before answering stiffly; "For my part, lord, I would but see you content."  
  
He rose, abashed, and left the room. For some time, Denethor sat on at the table, and then abruptly took up the maps, and went to his own chambers.  
  
  
  
The Long Hall, as it was called, filled the greater part of the House of the Stewards, and was, first and foremost, a place of feasting and song. Entry was through two great doorways, carved from the same pale stone as the city, with heavy doors of oak, each bearing in relief the emblems of the House of Húrin. Inside, the ceiling was very high with vaulted arches of stone, rising from strong, but graceful pillars on either side. The arches were quite plain, but finely poised above the room, like the outspread wings of great birds, while the space below was large enough to seat many folk in comfort. On the walls hung rich tapestries of gold and azure, and the floor was of white marble. At one end, the hall was lit by a tall window that looked west, its many tiny panes glinting in the light, while at the east end was a great fireplace, the high stone mantel carved with the likeness of the White Tree in deference to the kings, long absent. Stretching the length of the hall, stood a heavy table of dark oak, richly carved and very old. In Ecthelion's youth the chamber had been used much, when Alfirin still lived, for she, even more than the Steward, had been a lover of songs and of tales, and during her life the house had been filled with music and verse. But Denethor's mother had departed many years before, and now the hall was silent for the most part and its doors closed.  
  
On this occasion, however, the Steward deemed Eärnur's departure on his first term of office sufficient cause to order the opening of the hall and the preparation of a feast, unostentatious, but to which a number of his household were invited and others besides. It fell to Denethor, as Warden of the White Tower, to greet the guests, before the arrival of his father, a task that he rather enjoyed. As he approached the hall from his chambers, he could see the servants tending a blazing fire on the great hearth at the far end, while lamps glowed along the walls and on the table, now richly laid. A warm radiance suffused the room. Denethor found himself sharply reminded of former years and deeper pleasures in that very hall. He heard again his mother's clear voice raised in song to the music of the harpers, and remembered the thrill of travellers' tales of the Mark, from Thengel's days in Gondor, before he acceded to the throne of his fathers.  
  
He entered, and the servants swiftly left the hall, but before long he was joined by Lord Alcanore, a close counsellor to the Steward, with the lady Lanyare, elder sister of Eärnur. Very tall and slender she was, with the deep set, dark eyes of her line, and the same fine, curving cheekbones, so that she resembled more her uncle, the Steward, than her brother. Soon afterwards, Turin entered the hall, but said little to Denethor and stood awkwardly to one side, while the Warden and Lanyare spoke together.  
  
"It is a joy to see the Hall alive again, cousin," remarked Lanyare. "The Steward honours Eärnur by feasting in this chamber at his departure."  
  
"Such is the custom of the House of Húrin," said Denethor, "and my father is a man of tradition. But tell me, my lady," he went on. "you are but lately returned from east of the River. How are you faring in South Ithilien?"  
  
"Our house and lands are still in peace, for we have not been troubled so far south of the Emyn Arnen, and we crossed the River before turning north." Lanyare studied Denethor's face. "I know what you would say cousin, but we have much to do there and I would not abandon the gift of the Steward unless we must. Nor are we alone in that land, for there are other folk who dwell there still. And such a pass may still be many years away, if it ever happens."  
  
Denethor turned to Alcanore. "You are silent, lord. Is it indeed so? The news from the north is all of woe, and I fear that soon nowhere will be safe east of the River."  
  
"Do you think, Denethor, that I should risk my greatest treasure for the thought of a few casks of wine, if there was danger pressing?" Alcanore smiled. "I am no warrior, as you know well enough, and I should be the first to flee to the city at the first sign of real danger. And our house may yet be of use to your men if need should require it, and for that reason also I would have it kept in readiness. But I understand your fears, for it is your task to think always to the enemy, and so you ever look to see him where he is not. Is that not so, Turin?"  
  
Turin stirred, and answered, "If Lord Denethor has forebodings then I will not gainsay him. But I admire your fortitude and that is virtue enough to offer my support in your venture, and, though it should fail at the last, none shall hold you to blame in the attempt."  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
As the guests were arriving, a chill dusk was falling over the city, for the wind had changed and was bringing winter air down from the north. On the first level, the watchmen were preparing to close the Great Gates for the night, without any particular hurry it had to be said, for at that time the practise was more for ceremony than necessity. The two men, clad in the uniform of the Guard, were about to unfasten the heavy iron bolts that held the gates open, talking casually as they did so, when the younger man stopped what he was doing and pointed along the road to the north.  
  
"Now who's that coming to the city at this time of night?" he exclaimed. The other followed his gaze and made out a figure, bent and hooded in grey, walking slowly towards them, leaning on a long staff as he went.  
  
"He looks to be no more than a vagrant," returned his companion. "I suppose we had better wait though." He took up the heavy iron key and fitted it into the lock. "Now as I was saying, Lord Eärnur rode out to the Harlond yesterday with this new fellow, and him dressed little better than a beggar."  
  
"And they say he's only been here three days, and staying up at the Steward's house, as his guest?"  
  
"That's right, and before that he killed a great bear with his own hands that was just about to maul the Warden. Had him off his horse, it did. Here, hold on." The gatekeeper peered at the figure as it came closer. "I know him. He's been here before, at all times of the day and night, and he knows the passwords. Good friend of the Steward, they say."  
  
As he spoke, the old man reached the gates and paused before them, his bearded face half hidden by the hood of his tattered cloak.  
  
"Good evening, father," said the older guard. "A little late for wandering in the wild! Another minute and you'd have been shut out for the night. Come far have you?"  
  
"Far enough," came the gruff reply.  
  
"And in this cold too. Not good for you at your time of life I'll be bound. They say it plays havoc with the bones."  
  
"Then the sooner you stop your babble and let me pass, Targon, the sooner I'll be warm!" A bright eye glinted under the hood, while the stern voice belied a trace of amusement.  
  
The old man passed through the gates and strode up the winding way at a speed that surprised the guards, and was soon out of sight under the first arch of the Keel.  
  
Targon watched him casually as he disappeared. Presently he remarked; "There goes another mysterious wanderer. It seems Gondor is full of them these days." His companion shrugged and they began to push the great iron gates, so heavy that the strength of two men was needed to set them in motion. Once moving, they slid smoothly together with barely a sound, so skilfully had they been wrought in the furnaces of Anarion. There followed muffled clangs as the long bolts were driven home, and the key rasped as Targon turned it in the lock.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
  
Before long Eärnur himself came into the hall, looking very fine in ceremonial garb. He went first to Lanyare and they embraced warmly.  
  
"Father would have been proud to see you today!" she exclaimed. "But where is our mother?"  
  
The young man's face fell. "She has not come, sister, for she would not have me go east and she is afraid."  
  
"Did she not know that you were to ride with the rangers of Ithilien?"  
  
"She has long known it, but it does not make our parting easier for her to bear." There was a silence, and then Eärnur continued brightly, "But tell me of Opele Orequanta. Has Alcanore readied the vineyards for planting? And has he yet bought the hounds he promised you?"  
  
"He has not," Lanyare replied. "But there is much to do, and time in plenty."  
  
Lord Alcanore laughed. "I will leave you two to discuss my shortcomings in my absence, for already my ears start to burn!" Denethor was beckoning to him to meet the newest arrival, a tall man richly clad in black and grey, his dark hair arrayed about his shoulders and a star at his breast. It was Thorongil, but little did he resemble the weather-stained traveller from Rohan, who had ridden into the city three days before.  
  
"This is the Lord Alcanore, Thorongil, a counsellor to the Steward," said Denethor, "and here is Captain Turin who leads the company to Ithilien."  
  
"My Lords," replied Thorongil, and bowed. Turin nodded, and surveyed the newcomer with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. He had never been outside Gondor's borders except to the south below the Anduin at Pelargir, and he knew nothing of the lands north of Rohan, for he preferred to spend his time on the field, rather than in books of lore. The man before him could have passed for a nobleman of Gondor, not at all what he was expecting in a stranger from a far country.  
  
They held each other's gaze and neither spoke a word, until Alcanore intervened.  
  
"Have you been in Gondor before, Thorongil?" he asked.  
  
"Only into Anorien, my lord, with the riders of the Mark. That was some years ago, now."  
  
"Denethor tells me that you know Thengel. He was a good friend of mine when he lived in the city."  
  
"Yes, indeed," answered Thorongil. "He bad me send you greetings, if we met, and from Morwen also."  
  
"Ah, the fair lady Morwen!" said Alcanore. "Does she miss her home in Lossarnach?"  
  
"Not greatly, for she has much to keep her in Edoras."  
  
Then Turin spoke; "Is it true that you led the King's guard at Edoras?"  
  
"It is true," replied Thorongil. "But that office is little needed in the field, for Thengel is aged and goes not to war now as he used."  
  
"Come now," said Alcanore. "Surely it has thrice the worth you make out, for were you not close counsellor to the King, in all matters of state?"  
  
Thorongil shook his head and would concede only that Thengel asked his counsel when his own mind was in doubt, which was not often, and that he himself was seldom in Edoras long, for he had spent much of his time in Westfold, directing the forces at the Gap of Rohan.  
  
As the hall filled with folk, a harper started to play a lilting tune, a song of the sea from Belfalas, and the wine began to flow. The fire burned fiercely on the great hearth. The sun was not yet down, and could be clearly seen now in a haze of gold through the great west window, as it began it's last descent below a broken band of thick blue cloud that cloaked the upper slopes of the mountain.  
  
The last of the guests had entered the hall. Amongst them Denethor recognised Ælfhere, a man nearing old age, but strong and hale, with eyes of blue, and long silver hair, that ran down his back in braids. He was lately come to Minas Tirith from Lebennin, and before that from Edoras, for he was first cousin to Thengel of Rohan. He had long dwelt in Gondor, even as Thengel had done before him, but had been in the Mark for more than a year, visiting his kin. He came over to Denethor and bowed.  
  
"My Lord Ælfhere," said the Warden. "It has been too long since you were in our city."  
  
"You are mistaken, Lord Denethor," he answered warmly, "for I have been here already above one month, but I pardon your ignorance since you have been abroad these past weeks. And in some small peril I hear?"  
  
Denethor was about to reply when the old man's glance strayed behind him and he noticed Thorongil across the room. Ælfhere stared at him for a moment, and then suddenly smiled broadly and cried out, his deep voice ringing through the hall;  
  
"Wæs þu, Eardstapa, hal!"  
  
The guests fell silent in surprise, but Thorongil turned swiftly and strode across the room towards him.  
  
"Hwæt Ælfhere, min hlaford!" he replied and they embraced. "Glæd eom þe seon!"  
  
"So, my friend," Ælfhere went on, "you have come at last to Mundburg as you intended. Are you looking after my lord Théoden's horse, whom you stole from under his nose?"  
  
As Thorongil nodded, laughing, Ælfhere discerned the confusion on Denethor's face and continued; "I knew Thorongil at Meduseld. In Rohan they call him Eardstapa, that is Wanderer in your tongue. For in time of peace, with the King's leave, he ever came and went unlooked for, though none knew what errands took him abroad."  
  
"And he remains a mystery in Minas Tirith, also!" said Denethor dryly. "But we shall know him better in time."  
  
"It will be long, I think, ere you know Eardstapa," Ælfhere replied softly. "Now, my friend. What of our borders in the north? Does Eomund prosper?" He took Thorongil into a corner the better to hear his news, but before they had a chance to continue, a loud, clear bell sounded a single note and complete silence fell, for the Steward had entered the hall.  
  
Ecthelion made his way very slowly across the marble floor, leaning heavily on his staff, but when he came to the head of the long table he stood erect and tall, clad in a rich tunic of garnet, picked out in gold. He lifted his hand, and all the company turned then towards the window and stood for a moment in silent thought. At the same time the sun slowly sank into the west behind the shoulder of Mindolluin, whose snow-mantled peak glistening in the last light of the day, before darkening to grey in the gathering gloom.  
  
Then the steward grasped Eärnur by the hand and addressed the gathered company; "We are met to bid farewell and good fortune to Eärnur, our kinsman, who rides east in three days with Turin's company. It need not be said that he goes into peril, but I have no doubts that he is fitted for the task, for he is full grown to manhood and his skills are ripe for the testing. So let us be glad and honour him as we may!"  
  
He kissed Eärnur's brow and called for a toast, and then they sat down. That was the sign for the music to begin again. Soon afterwards, great platters of food were brought and set on the table, and the guests sat down. As darkness fell outside, a long hanging was drawn across the west window, azure and gold like the others, but it bore a central panel woven with a design of many stars, above a high-prowed ship.  
  
The company ate and drank, and listened to many songs and tales, some related by the guests themselves and others by musicians with harp and flute. Most of the stories were well known to all, and told of Númenor, or of the days of the Last Alliance, when Elendil the Tall and Gilgalad the Elf-king fought Sauron himself at the Gates of Mordor, after long and bitter battle on the plain; and at the last defeated him, though they perished in the deed. Turin, who had never before been invited to such feasting in the Steward's house, remained silent for the most part, but listened eagerly. He was wholly enchanted by the beauty of the tales and the interwoven blend of music and words that filled the hall with the memory of Gondor's past. He looked across the table and saw Thorongil, who likewise had said little, and who now sat quite still, his face expressionless but with a strange light in his eyes.  
  
After a while Denethor glanced casually at Thorongil, wondering what he had made of the gathering.  
  
"What tales can you tell us out of the North, Newcomer?" he asked. "You must have heard strange stories in you wanderings."  
  
Thorongil nodded. "I have learned a few along the way." He paused for a moment as though searching his memory. "Very well then, I will tell you a tale of the northern forests, west of the Misty Mountains, which maybe you have not heard."  
  
He sat back in his chair and, after a moment's thought, began to speak.*  
  
  
  
"There is a story I once heard of the Old Forest that lies about the Withywindle, which flows into Baranduin near to a land they call the Shire. It is an ancient valley and few folk dare to enter it these days, but once it formed part of the Great Forest of Fangorn, when it covered all the lands west of the Mountains. An age and more ago, before the lords of the West returned to these shores, there lived a king of men, who ruled a little country thereabouts. Small, but important, he thought his realm, and after a time he fancied himself worthy to rule a greater portion of the northern lands than was his due. So he raised an army from his folk and went abroad into the world to find new lands and subdue them to his will.  
  
On a time he came upon the forest, and, fearing nothing, he entered it, for he told himself he might make use of the trees and build great halls from their timber, for they were tall and mighty in girth. Now, in the middle of this forest there was a hill that stood out above the trees, and the king was minded to climb towards the top to see what he might see, leaving his men standing about the slopes below him.  
  
But unbeknown to the king, a spirit of the trees lived in the forest and she was wroth, for the king's men had cut down the ancient elder that was her home, and burned it on their fires. Ellerngast was her name. She overtook his army as it clove through the trees like a host of marching ants, and she waited on the hill, near to the top, rightly believing that he would climb up. Now she knew, or guessed, his mind and determined to punish him for his vanity and pride, and so, as he toiled up the slope, she appeared before him suddenly in the likeness of a young maiden, and spoke beguiling words;  
  
'Seven long strides shalt thou take, and  
  
if Withywindle thou canst see ,  
  
King of the Northlands shall ye be!'  
  
  
  
The king was exultant and in his delight he cried out in a loud voice;  
  
  
  
'Stick, stock, stone  
  
As King of the North I shall be known!'  
  
  
  
He strode eagerly forward, but on his seventh stride the ground rose up suddenly before him and he could not see the river below, and Ellerngast laughed long and cried;  
  
  
  
'As Withywindle thou canst not see,  
  
King of the North thou shalt not be.  
  
Rise up stick, and stand still, stone,  
  
For King of the North thou shalt be none;  
  
Thou and thy men hoar stones shall be,  
  
and I myself an eldern tree!'  
  
  
  
And then and there the king was turned to a pillar of hard stone and all his men about the hill became standing stones also. And where Ellerngast had been, there was a graceful, young elder, just as she had said, but she wept silently at her fate, for no more could she wander the woods, and from her branches sprang sprays of many dark tears like jewels.  
  
But a little later there passed by Orald, who was the true Guardian of the Forest, had the king but known it. He was high of heart and as he walked he sang to the daughter of the river, whom he greatly loved, though he had not yet won her heart. But when he saw the tears of the elder tree, and the host of standing stones, he felt pity at the king's foolishness and his pride, and he spoke words of comfort to them. And then the soldiers were turned into trees, every one, and the King himself became a mighty willow. They soon found that they could move through the woods at will thereafter, but most often they stood close to Withywindle, and guarded the forest from all comers who dared to enter its deepest coombs or seek the river. Indeed it is said that unwary travellers who stray in those parts may still be ensnared by the king and his men, and only the Guardian of the Forest can release them from his traps. Old Man Willow, the king is called. His heart is black and he rules the trees, and calls none lord but Orald."  
  
  
  
As Thorongil spoke the whole chamber fell silent and everyone listened, for his voice was deep and there was a rich music in his words.  
  
"What became of Ellerngast?" asked Lanyare, entranced. "Did she never escape from her own spell?"  
  
"She did not," replied Thorongil, "for a tree spirit cannot live without her home, and it was her doom to go back to the essence from which she came. It is perilous to cut even a small branch from the eldern tree, for their leaves are woven about with spells to punish those who lay an axe to their timber."  
  
"We have no such trees in the south," remarked the Steward. "But it is rumoured that in Fangorn Forest there are trees that walk and speak with voices."  
  
"I know of those tales," said Ælfhere, "and I walked on its borders in my youth but I saw no such trees myself."  
  
"I too have entered Fangorn," continued Thorongil, "and it was very strange. I should not choose to enter it a second time."  
  
"Who is Orald?" asked Denethor, eyeing him sceptically.  
  
"He is the forest, you might say," said Thorongil. "He is older than the eldest trees, and none know when he came there, or from what land. But he dwells there to this day, and with him Goldberry, River Daughter, who at last returned his love. They have walked the woods together this last age of the world."  
  
Just then a sound was heard at the south door, which had opened wide, and there entered an old man in a long cloak that had seen much wear. His hood was cast back and long silvering locks fell about his shoulders, while his grey beard reached almost to his waist. He glanced quickly about him and then strode into the hall and across to where Ecthelion sat, to the astonishment of some of those present, and the amusement of others.  
  
The Steward had been deep in conversation with Lanyare, and when he saw the newcomer he started, and then looked perplexed.  
  
"Mithrandir! Do you never announce your coming? Or must a man be forever on his guard against your arrival even when he is entertaining guests?"  
  
The old man bowed low before Lanyare. "Greetings my Lady, and your pardon, my lord Steward. Am I not then welcome at your feasting? I have walked far to see you and I am cold and very weary."  
  
Ecthelion raised his hands in a gesture of resignation, and then poured wine and offered it to Mithrandir. "As to your welcome, as you put it, you must ask Lord Eärnur, for on his account do we feast tonight. But what brings you in such haste when we have seen no sign of you nor had any message these past five months?"  
  
"Some news reached me which I wished to confirm with my own eyes," said Mithrandir. "But come now, Lord, may I not pay a visit to your house with no more purpose than to wish you well?"  
  
"I might say so," answered the Steward raising an eyebrow, "if you had ever done such a thing in all the years I have known you, Greybeard. But I know better than to question you over much, and tonight I have no interest in news. I believe you are known to most of the company. Lord Ælfhere you have met before. This is Turin, newly appointed captain of Ithilien. Eärnur is to ride with his company. And this is Thorongil, who is lately come from Rohan."  
  
The two surveyed one another impassively, and then the old man frowned.  
  
"From Rohan you say," he pondered. "Were you at Edoras?"  
  
"I led the King's guard these last seven years," replied Thorongil.  
  
"Then I must have seen you there, for I know your face, I think." He eyed the man curiously. "Yes, I do know you. And what brings you to Gondor?"  
  
"I wish to serve Lord Ecthelion, as best I may," said Thorongil, "and to see more of the world before I grow old."  
  
"Indeed?" returned Mithrandir, and smiled a little. "Both worthy causes, no doubt." He sat down at the table and took a long sip of wine. "That is much better. I have been on the road for many days, and winter begins to close in. There will be snowfall in the city before long I think, for Mindolluin is heavy with cloud."  
  
"What have you been doing since we last met, Mithrandir?" asked Alcanore. "There is much I would discuss with you. Have you been at Orthanc?"  
  
"I have, and elsewhere besides," said Mithrandir. But I will not speak of that this evening. There will be time in plenty for traveller's tales."  
  
~~~  
  
It was growing late, and once the Steward had departed the guests began to disperse. Aragorn slipped away back to his room as soon as he was able to leave the hall unnoticed. Leaving the door ajar, he swiftly drew the hangings across the window and lit the fire. Then he drew a deep breath and waited. Within a few minutes he heard soft even footsteps and the rhythmic thud of a heavy staff on the stone flags outside in the passage. There was a pause and then a hand grasped the door and drew it open. In the doorway stood the one he had been waiting for, his beard longer, and his cloak a little more ragged than Aragorn remembered, but otherwise unchanged.  
  
"So, you have come to the city at last!" said the wizard, shutting the door quietly behind him. "I began to wonder if you would ever leave Rohan."  
  
"Gandalf!" exclaimed Aragorn. "Of all joys the least expected. Did you know that I was here? Surely you have not walked from Edoras within these last twelve days? "  
  
Gandalf crossed the chamber and sat down by the fire. "If truth be told I was already on my way to the city from the north, when I heard news that you had been sighted, crossing Anorien with Denethor. I was anxious to see you for myself."  
  
"Of course," said Aragorn, "the eagle! I should have guessed." He quickly bolted the door and sat down. "It was high time I journeyed south, but things go ill in Westfold even as we speak. I trust that you were not seen coming in here," he added.  
  
Gandalf laughed. "What do you take me for?" He looked at his friend closely, and went on; "If I did not know you better, I should say that at the last you were putting off your coming to Minas Tirith. Am I far off the mark?"  
  
"Not far!" he replied. "You could ever read me like a book, as you know full well. But in any case, I was loath to leave Thengel when war threatens his borders with Dunland yet again."  
  
"I doubt very much that Thengel would ride to battle in person, with or without you at his side. Besides, Dunland is not so great a threat to Rohan, close as it is to Isengard."  
  
Aragorn looked at him gravely. "When were you last at Orthanc, Gandalf?"  
  
"Not more than three months ago, perhaps a little less," said the old man slowly, his eyes narrowing. "Why do you ask?"  
  
"Did Saruman speak of the Mark?"  
  
"Amongst other things more pressing. He told me that all was well with Rohan's western defences, but that the threat was from the east, and that orcs were moving on the Emyn Muil."  
  
"The latter is certainly true. Did he say aught of his dealings with Meduseld?"  
  
"Not a great deal, but the alliance stands firm, does it not?"  
  
Aragorn fell silent, and Gandalf noticed his fingers tighten very slightly across the arms of his chair.  
  
"Well, are you going to tell me what is in your mind?"  
  
The young man hesitated. "It may be of no concern," he said, "but Saruman has been very close of late, and even more so since the trouble started on the borders. Thengel sent Dunhere to seek his counsel, but he was not permitted to enter the gates, and Saruman has sent scant word to Edoras these last two years."  
  
"He and Thengel were never of the same mind about the best way to secure the Gap of Rohan, but your words surprise me, I cannot deny it. What do you make of it?"  
  
"I do not know," said Aragorn, "but it is a strange ally who will not respond to a direct request. I have a feeling that all is not what Saruman would have us believe."  
  
"Thengel will be resolute with or without Saruman's counsel. But often there is more to your hunches than meets the eye. I wonder..." Gandalf gazed thoughtfully into the fire and concern flickered across his face. But then he turned again towards Aragorn and continued; "Now tell me how you have fared in Minas Tirith. What do you make of the Steward and his son?"  
  
"Ecthelion is a stern lord and has a subtle mind," said Aragorn. "And his people love him, that is plain. He must have been a mighty warrior in his youth, and even now he leads with a will of iron from the citadel which he cannot leave. Now Denethor, he is different to my mind. Not less stern, nor less wise. Indeed I think he will be a great leader of men, for he sees much that others miss. But there is something that drives him from the Steward which I cannot describe. It is like a rope that is stretched with too heavy a load and is near to breaking. I did not think to see this between a father and son, but it governs his every turn, and I wonder very much where it will lead him."  
  
"You perceive much in a short space, for I have seen this between them for many years," replied Gandalf grimly. "The Steward loves his son, but Denethor cannot see it, for he feels only the sadness and hurts of Alfirin, whom they have both lost. I fear that will never heal. But what of the city?"  
  
"It is very fair," said Aragorn, "but seems a shadow of what it must once have been. Many great houses lie forsaken, and the Tower feels like an empty tomb. And there are no trees within the walls, but the one tree that lives no longer. I never felt so deeply their lack as I do here. There is nowhere green. I fear I am not made for city life, Gandalf."  
  
"Trees may be found and planted anew, yes, even the White Tree, Lord Aragorn!" said Gandalf. "Do not forget that, even as you toil in this stony city."  
  
"I will not, but nevertheless I long for the north," said Aragorn, and sighed.  
  
Gandalf paused, and then reaching under his cloak he drew out his pipe, and a soft leather pouch, which he opened and passed to Aragorn.  
  
"Meanwhile, here is something you may have missed since we met last! A gift from the north to remind you of home."  
  
Aragorn sniffed the contents and a wide smile lit up his face. "Longbottom leaf! It smells quite fresh. Have you been to the Shire?"  
  
"No, but I was in Bree not very long ago and I saved this for you. It has not been opened, though I have been tempted, I can tell you!"  
  
"There is no leaf in Rohan to match it. Thank-you for restraining yourself. I shall keep it safe for times of great need, and then savour it!"  
  
"Aragorn!" cried the wizard, his eyebrows bristling. "Would you deprive me of a taste when I have brought it all these leagues and resisted temptation, just to see you squirrel it away under my nose? I haven't smoked Longbottom leaf in nearly a year!"  
  
Aragorn laughed. "I find that hard to believe, knowing you, my friend. Very well. Let us share a little now."  
  
The two lit up their pipes and sat back comfortably. They were silent for some time, relaxed in each other's company without need for talk, as old friends can when much has been shared between them and they know each other well. Aragorn sat staring into the fire, his thoughts drifting, and after a while he spoke softly, without lifting his gaze.  
  
"Have you been in Rivendell since we met last?" His face betrayed a quiet yearning but at the same time almost a reluctance to say the words.  
  
Gandalf smiled at him and answered; "Yes indeed. I was there last year, for several months. I had business with Elrond, and with your kin, for Halbarad was there. He sends you his greetings. But as ever you are uppermost in the thoughts of all, and your name is spoken often, by Elrond not the least."  
  
Aragorn hesitated; "And the lady Arwen?"  
  
"She was there also."  
  
"Did she send no word to me?" His voice was thick.  
  
Gandalf shook his head. "I am sorry, my friend," he replied gently. "But she asked many questions about your activities in the Mark, and I told her what I was able, that you were well and prospering in Thengel's service."  
  
"How then did she look?" Aragorn almost pleaded. "I must know!"  
  
"You ask the wrong person for such details." said Gandalf. But he thought for a moment as though trying to picture her in his mind's eye, and then continued; "She wore grey. Her dark hair was loose and shone like the moon, and she looked very fair, but in her eyes there was a sadness. She had had words with her father I think, and she spoke much of Celebrian."  
  
"Your words are but little comfort to me," the young man answered and looked away. "But there. I do not know what more I should expect." He fell silent, and Gandalf watched his face but said nothing. Presently the wizard took his leave and after checking that no one was near, he stole out into the courtyard, where a guard watched him curiously as he crossed to the Keel in the darkness and looked out over the starlit vale towards the east.  
  
  
  
  
  
* I confess this tale is way off-canon, but hope that JRRT may not have been completely dismayed by it. The rhymes and story of the king and his soldiers being turned to stone, due to the king's over-enthusiasm and pride, are part of the folklore of a circle of standing stones at Great Rollright in North Oxfordshire, and I have adapted them a very little for placenames. Tolkien would certainly have known the story I'm sure, and he alludes to the same stones in Farmer Giles of Ham. Thanks to G. Lambrick's "The Rollright Stones" (1983, Oxford Archaeological Unit), for the printed version of the originals. The Middle Earth additions/alterations are self- explanatory. My other source of inspiration was Ovid's Metamorphoses, but the overall shape of the tale is all mine, a sort of imagined aetiology for the malevolent trees of the Old Forest.  
  
One last thing; if anyone out there with more knowledge of Anglo-Saxon than me would like to correct my first attempts above I should be very grateful for any help forthcoming! 


End file.
